Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6) (6 page)

I unlatch the little gate and lope toward the front porch. One of the hardest things to get used to after I came home was running out in the open. The Florida Keys offer plenty of sand and sun, but we’re low on hostiles. No one will shoot at me as I rack up my miles. No one will plant an explosive device by the side of the road, waiting for me to pass. I still scan the road, though, as I run—old habits die hard.

My bottle of water is waiting for me on the porch. It’s still ice-cold, tiny droplets dripping down the side. I’m indulging myself and I know it. I could carry a water bottle. I could run somewhere else.

But I don’t.

Instead, I stop and stretch, assessing the outside of the house and the yard for my next projects. I’ve already replaced the obvious missing boards in her dock, fixed two broken windows, scraped and painted her shed, and evicted multiple baby palm trees that were squatting in her front yard. Today’s project is painting the white picket fence that marches around her front yard. Pretty sure the last time a paintbrush touched those boards was sometime in the last century.

I grab two cans of white paint, a screwdriver, and a brush from the storage shed. Marlee’s a minimalist when it comes to tools. The first time I checked out her stuff, she owned exactly two screwdrivers. One flat head. One Phillips. For her, that got the job done. Me? I prefer some variety—you can’t have too many tools. You need a back up and then another spare in case bad shit happens to the first two or some jackass breaks in and clears out your stash.

I head out to the fence, pop the lid on the first can, and get busy. Painting’s not a bad job. I’m not ready to go all Mr. Miyagi and declare it some kind of spiritual experience, but it’s got a nice rhythm. Not my all-time favorite—that honor goes to sex—but I’m on my back getting the pain-in-the-ass bits underneath and in the zone when Marlee wanders out to grab the mail. Since she’s wearing a pair of denim shorts that hug her ass and flash her cheeks with each step, I take a paint break to stare. We’re friends, but I’m not blind. The camisole tank top thing she’s wearing floats up with each step she takes, so I get a bonus look at her stomach and back as well. Her waist has this sweet curve and I’ll bet my hand fits there perfectly. You know. If we weren’t just friends. Or Robin Hood and Azeem, who don’t lust after each other in the mainstream versions of the story.

I jam the brush into the can, loading it up good. Paint’s so much safer than shorts. Or waists, tits, and ass. Way too soon, Marlee comes back, flipping through a stack of flyers and envelopes. She hums as she flip-flops her way toward me, humming something that goes
note note note uh-huh note hmmm…
She stops walking right about when she hits my section of the fence. I stare up at her and up her shirt. It’s got one of those built-in bra things, but she’s got a freckle on her ribs and sweet curves that make a certain part of me start humming an
uh-huh uh-huh
of my own.

“Oh,” she says. “Look at this.”

I’m looking all right.

She drops down beside me and shoves one of those glossy picture postcards in front of my face. I almost paint the damned thing white, but pull back at the last second. The brush slaps her arm. Looks like the world’s biggest sea gull shat on her, but she doesn’t seem to care. She’s too busy staring at the grinning baby on the postcard.

“Don’t you think he’s just gorgeous?” she demands.

I rest the brush on the can, squint at the picture, and stretch my legs, getting comfortable. “Not my type.”

“Look at him.” The baby undulates in front of me again and I look as directed. Nope. Still not doing it for me. He’s a cheerful, fat, no-part-of-my-universe blob on a page. I’m not sure why she’s getting so excited, so I take a guess.

“Are you related?”

That seems like a safe question, right? I mean who walks around admiring random pictures of babies? But her eyes tear up.

“No,” she says. Her voice wobbles, and she’s gonna get the baby wet.

I snag the card from her. He’s still just a baby, but he matters in the Marlee-verse. I sit up cautiously, turn the card over (not that it’s any of my business), and read it. Two random people somewhere in South Dakota are thrilled to announce the birth of blah blah blah. There’s no mention of deadly diseases, unfortunate accidents, or kidnapping. So… what the fuck? I eye Marlee warily.

She sniffs. “I used to babysit her. She should be three going on four—
and she has a baby
.”

This is way above my pay grade. I paint fences. I fix broken cars, broken appliances, and broken windows. Whatever’s got Marlee so upset? I don’t have a fucking clue. But her fence is only half-painted and she’s staring at me with puppy dog eyes—and I can’t leave. There’s probably a repair manual somewhere for situations like this, and I make a mental note to do some Googling.

In the meantime, however, I’m reduced to more guessing. “You don’t like babies?”

“I love babies,” she sobs and then her head comes flying at my chest. I catch her reflexively, slamming back against the freshly painted fence. I’m gonna have to fix that later, but right now I wrap my arms around Marlee and hope to God none of her neighbors can see over the hibiscus bushes in her front yard.

“So this is good news.”
Work with me here.

“For her,” Marlee wails.

I pat her on the back awkwardly. I know how to love her good. Know how to give her an orgasm or three. This hugging shit? Virgin territory for me. Still, how hard can it be? I run my hand up and down her back, trying not to snag the filmy stuff that’s her shirt.

She lifts her head and stares at me. “Do you want babies?”

I shrug. “Never really thought about it.”

“I do.” She swallows, making a loud gulping sound.

I give her another pat on the back. “So what’s stopping you?”

The stare morphs into a glare, as if it’s my fucking fault she doesn’t have a dozen kids trailing after her to the mailbox and back. Clearly, I’ve just said the wrong thing.

“It takes
two
,” she hisses. “Do you see a man in my house, Vann? People don’t do asexual reproduction—I need a partner.”

“You were married,” I blurt out unwisely. Vali has mentioned—usually with a great deal of cursing—that Marlee’s ex-husband is a piece of work. A douchebag. A grade-A dick. Take your pick. Marlee’s own comments seem to underscore this, and in our one previous conversation about dicks and reproduction, she made it sound like the ex was the one who couldn’t reproduce. Although I certainly don’t think sharing his DNA with future generations is prudent, another, more horrible thought occurs to me.

“Can
you
have kids?”

Marlee smacks my chest. Hard. “You think I’m the problem?”

Honestly? No. But that’s because I don’t understand what we’re talking about.

“Tell me how to fix this.” I think I sound a little desperate.

Marlee sighs and pats me on the cheek like I’m fucking six. “You’re a sweet guy, Vann.”

Then she gets off my lap, saunters back inside, and I’m left with a fence to repaint and no clue what just happened.

Two days after I paint the fence (and a day after I give up on the T-shirt that landed in the paint), we have a client come by Search and SEALs to pick up a dog we’ve been training for the last ten months. That tends to make Finn mournful—he treats our trainees like they’re his own flesh-and-blood. I miss all of our dogs when they move on, but it’s important to let them get out there and do what we’ve trained them to do, because they’re amazing and there are way too many bastards hell-bent on blowing up the world.

Our dogs will curtail their terrorist fun.

So when Finn waves his phone in my direction and announces that “Vali has a table for six at the bar,” there’s only one acceptable answer and that’s
When?
Even I, king of the anti-social misfits, know that. I do, however, swing by my place, shower, and pull on a slightly less used pair of jeans and a T-shirt. This is because I’m eternally optimistic—and possibly also because where Vali goes on a Friday night, Marlee usually follows.

When I come outside, as dressed up as I get, Finn’s waiting for me. “We taking your truck?” he asks.

I take a quick look around Search and SEALs, but Ro’s clearly already gone ahead. And since I’ve never been a big drinker, I’m the natural choice for tonight’s designated driver.

“In,” I say, snapping my fingers like he’s one of our four-legged recruits. He flashes me a salute and then vaults lightly into the truck bed. This is the perfect opportunity to razz him about his non-law-abiding ways and the possibilities for death-by-ejection, but we’ve ridden Humvees, tanks, and a dozen other vehicles as SEALs. Because I’m working on maturity, I pass. Plus? If he survived that, I don’t think he’s dying on the way to the bar.

Five minutes later, we’re pulling into the bar. I’ve been accused on more than one occasion of having aspirations to drive in a Nascar race. My usual counterargument is that I drive well. I haven’t wrecked and I haven’t lost a passenger yet—and sometimes you need to get where you’re headed fast.

The tiki bar on the edge of the water is a much happier place than the desert haunting my memories. Unless there’s a storm building out over the Gulf, it’s an awesome place to sit and knock back a beer. It has no walls and the roof is made from palm fronds—little bits tend to drift down and land in your drink. Bright red and blue Adirondack chairs dot the sand outside. If you choose to belly up to the bar, your only seating choices are swings. I’ve never heard any complaints, though.

As soon as I’m (mostly) parked, Finn vaults out of my truck and makes a beeline for Vali. She’s definitely something—dark-haired, lush curves, eyes that twinkle and smile. She’s a baker, a cook, and a goddamned-amazing candy maker, so she always smells of cinnamon and vanilla. Her skin is a warm, sun-kissed color that makes me think of caramels. I’m not surprised Finn wants to eat her up. She’s smart, she’s talented, she looks like a goddess, and for completely unfathomable reasons she’s convinced Finn is the best man God ever made. I’ve offered to prove otherwise, but so far she’s turned me down. Finn’s a lucky man, and he knows it.

Their first kiss is suitably G-rated, barely a brush of the lips, except that Finn gets this goofy look on his face. When he’s not around Vali, he’s the same guy he’s always been. He’s foul-mouthed, pleasure-loving, and loyal as fuck. There’s no better man to have watching your six and your ass. When he’s with Vali, however, those rough edges soften and I see a different side of him. The
inside
part that’s mushy and full of feelings I’d rather not be witnessing firsthand. I’ve walked in on guys going at it with their girls in ways that make porn look tame, but this feels more personal. Finn loves Vali, and he wants the whole world to know it.

Ro is already at the bar, organizing drinks for everybody. He’s still the same, thank God. Most of the time, he can’t forget that he was the lieutenant commander who ordered our asses around overseas. He also looked after, mentored, and kicked said asses too, so it’s not like we didn’t appreciate him. He just has a hard time letting go—or giving up control. He places our usual drink orders in a deep, steady voice. Finn once claimed there was nothing better for putting him to sleep—he could listen to Ro talk and be out like a light. More effective than Valium, too. Obviously, Finn was joking, but he had a point. Ro takes charge effortlessly and he’s so calm you sometimes forget he’s breathing.

I drop onto an empty Adirondack chair and stare out at the ocean. Fucking love this. It feels like a vacation to sit here and not be planning an attack—from underwater or under cover of the palms or from overhead. Still, old habits die hard. While I’m considering the slope of the beach floor and the likely best angle of attack, my beer materializes over my right shoulder.

“Don’t forget to tip your server,” Ro drawls, and I grin.

“Get a life. Date a hot cutie.” I flick the lime out of my longneck and chuck it into the ocean.

Ro settles in beside me, legs stretched out in the sand. “We’ve got ladies joining us.”

Vali almost always travels with her posse, so I’m not surprised when the girlfiends (Vali’s name, not mine) drift in. In addition to Marlee, Ava Shelton makes up the evil third in their triumvirate. She’s a redheaded divorce lawyer and she eats guys like me for breakfast. In her world, I’m nothing more than a shark-sized snack to be chewed up and spit out during a single court session. She’s sleek and put-together, even if she is facing down a night of first-class mojitos on a Florida beach rather than a courtroom and a hostile spouse. Her cotton sundress is crisp, the pleats as perfect as her ponytail. The woman not only owns an iron, but she uses it. Regularly.

We’ve taken to calling our nights out date nights, but nothing could be further from the truth. The only two people
dating
are Finn and Vali, and in their case it’s really just a euphemism for
having wild hot monkey sex
. Okay. They also have a relationship. Never thought I’d see our resident bad boy fall hard for a woman, but Finn has. He’s ready to seal the deal, waltz his girl to the altar, and make her a Mrs.